Saltwater Room
by ShougiKnight
Summary: Songfic for Owl City's Saltwater Room. 8059. I tried to make it an atypical songfic. Work-in-progress. As a sidenote, Yamamoto's dad isn't dead, he's just homesick.


Eh, this is my attempt at making a song-fic NOT a songfic. I lost steam…and synonyms. So if you think I should finish the song and make it a full fic, send me some constructive criticism/reviews of joyousness. And my demand for continuing is at least 5 reviews. Sorry I haven't posted for a while, school ate my soul. PS. If Alyssa is the only one that posted, her reviews we be counted as null and void. I know where you sleep, sorella. 

**Saltwater Room- Owl City. 8059.**

-59-

Gokudera carefully locked the door to his suite in Vongola's summer house, shedding his tie and not bothering to turn on the lights, he immediately walked out onto the balcony. He felt smothered in this house. It seemed to radiate the pressure and responsibility that he wasn't quite used to yet. They were apparently here to train Tenth in etiquette and such. They had only arrived a week or so ago but it was still difficult to get used to the sheer size of everything. His small apartment back in Japan had been minimalistic. He hadn't spent much time there anyway. Besides, once you'd tried Mama Sawada's cooking, you never wanted to try cooking for yourself.

His eyes trailed slowly across the horizon, the view from his window was amazing, opening right into the bay before spreading to the Mediterranean. He allowed a small, private smile as he recognized the person slowly walking down the narrow beach, hands pocketed. **I opened my eyes last night and saw you in the low light****/** **  
><strong>**Walking down by the bay, on the shore, staring up at the planes that aren't there anymore****.**

-80-

"Dad…" Yamamoto bent down to pick up a rock, throwing it across the small waves, not bothering to watch if it skipped or not. He sighed deeply, knowing there was no one nearby enough to bother smiling for.

The ocean smelled like salt and fish, reminding him of Take-sushi. The smell here was different though. It was more damp, less crisp. It didn't have any other flavor other than just bitter seawater and rotting fish. He missed wasabi. This smell had no spice to it, no flavor. Sort of like that bland pasta they'd had for dinner. He caught a waft of smoke on the wind blowing down the beach from the house, caught only because it contrasted so strongly with the salty beach wind. He glanced back, his eyes automatically finding Gokudera's room. He smiled slightly, catching the faint glow of a cigarette. Turning around, he started slowly making his way back to the house. **I was feeling the night grow old and you were looking so cold/****like an introvert, I drew my over shirt****/ ****Around my arms and began to shiver violently, before****/ ****You happened to look and see the tunnels all around me****. **He needed to get his thoughts back in order. At least he had his friends. His dad would be fine running the shop. There was no point in being depressed. If for nothing else, he needed to smile so Tsuna wouldn't be so stressed.

Yamamoto chuckled a little; the baby sure did a good job of driving poor Tsuna up a wall, sometimes literally.

-59-

Gokudera's lips closed around the cigarette as he slowly breathed in. He saw alleyways rushing past in streaks of blood and crude bandages salvaged from dumpsters.**Running into the dark underground/ All the subways around create a great sound****. **He kept running, ducking through yards and around buildings. Hiding under private docks and squirming into places his larger attackers hopefully wouldn't be able to follow. Every city he went to, it was the same story. Until he had come to Namimori, that is. **To my motion fatigue: farewell****. **The difference was like the door to a soundproof room, shutting out a concert hall of angry music lovers after a failed concert.**  
><strong>**With your ear to a seashell****/ ****You can hear the waves in underwater caves****/ ****As if you actually were inside a saltwater room**.

The difference between his memories of Italy and Japan were the difference between gunshot and fireworks, not the sound itself, but the sounds surrounding it.

_Time together is just never quite enough_  
><strong>When you and I are alone, I've never felt so at home,<strong>  
><em>What will it take to make or break this hint of love?<em>_  
><em>**We need time**, only time  
><em>When we're apart whatever are you thinking of?<em>_  
><em>**If this is what I call home, why does it feel so alone?****  
><strong>_So tell me darling, do you wish we'd fall in love?__  
><em>**All the time**, all the time. 


End file.
